


drape your arms around me and softly say

by FreshBrains



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Gen, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:11:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allison relaxes into those warm hands and arms, drowning herself in the floral scent.  “I’m dead.”</p>
<p>“Yes you are,” the woman says, voice plain.  “But you’re not alone.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	drape your arms around me and softly say

_This is how it ends_ , Allison thinks, sinking into the warm cradle of Scott’s arms.  _This is how it ends, him, me, us.  It’s done._

_You’re done._

She remembers her last breath, and then she is somewhere else.

*

It’s seamless, all of it.  She was burning, bleeding—pain lancing through her side and pooling in her stomach, pain too sharp to heal.  She’s never had pain that worried her before, but that pain was blaring and red, a siren in her ribs that faded into a slow whine.

And then—

She’s just _somewhere_.  Somewhere cool and breezy, light rain falling on her cheeks.  She doesn’t want to open her eyes, they’re still sandy with dried tears, her face still sticky with dried blood, but she opens them just a crack and sees an overcast sky, grey with fuzzy clouds.

She falls back to sleep, nestled in a field of yellowed grass and dandelions, puffy and ready to be turned into wishes.

*

She wakes again to soft hands and the smell of lavender and roses, soft and antique and gentle enough for her not to startle as she eases up on her elbows.

“Close your eyes,” a female voice urges.  “Keep them closed and sleep.  I’ll take care of you.”

Allison is too tired to argue, her throat too dry.  She relaxes into those warm hands and arms, drowning herself in the floral scent.  “I’m dead.”

“Yes you are,” the woman says, voice plain.  “But you’re not alone.”

This is enough for Allison to fall asleep again, deep and long, like a warm dream.

*

She wakes when cool water touches her skin.

“ _Shhh_ ,” the woman says, tongue rasping against her teeth.  “I’m just getting you clean.  You can go back to sleep if you’d like.”

Allison whines a little, opening her eyes.  The sky is still overcast and thunder rumbles low in the distance, but the wind has died.  The woman is shadowed from her vision, what little sun there is turning her into a shapeless mass.  “Where are we?”

“A stream,” the woman says, easing Allison’s body into the cool water, babbling a foot deep over smooth stones.  Allison is naked, skin bare to the woman and the sky, but she’s so nice and _warm_ , so comfortable in those arms.  The woman cups water in her white hands and pours it over Allison’s frame.  Allison leans back, letting her hair fall into the water, and she turns her head to the side a little to see blood washing downstream, away from her skin.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Allison croaks when the woman gentles Allison’s side, the one torn apart.

“That’s good,” the woman says.  “It means we’ve accepted you.”

Allison can’t help it; she closes her eyes again, letting the woman bathe her like a child.  She can’t feel a thing but the cool water and sure hands.  Her heart is empty, her mind is swimming.  She’s someone else.  “Who are you?”

The woman weaves her fingers through the slick darkness of Allison’s hair, washing away the dirt and blood.  “Laura.”

*

Allison is asleep again, and when she opens her eyes, she’s alone in the dark, wrapped in what feels like fur and wool.  A fire burns in the hearth across from her, allowing only an ember of light in the room. 

“Laura?”

Someone stirs across the room.  “I’m here.  What do you need?”

Allison swallows thickly and a cup of cool water appears at her lips, smelling of the stream.  She drinks deeply.  “Laura,” she says, settling back into the furs.  “He’s good.  He’s done bad things…things that hurt me and my family.  But he’s okay.”

Hands brush her hair out of her eyes.  “I know.  I can see him.”

Allison cries, tears sliding into the fur.  Her heart is filling again and it hurts worse than a blade.  “Can I see them, too?  My dad?”  _Scott, Lydia, Isaac._

Laura makes a humming noise.  “Soon enough.  Sleep now.”

As Allison drifts again, she thinks about how perfect it all is, the hunter falling into the wolf’s den, a perfect hell.

*

When Allison finally wakes, her bones are tired, her muscles aching under her skin.  But she feels so eerily _alive_.

Laura takes her by the hand and walks her outside into the milky sunlight that tries to burn through the clouds.  Allison can finally see Laura clearly without the drugged haze of sleep—Laura is tall and lithe and muscular, much like Derek and Cora, her hair long and auburn, streaming down her back.  She wears faded jeans and a white blouse, loose over her strong frame, her feet bare, and her eyes are jewel green. 

“Where are we?”  Allison has never been surrounded by so much silence—there’s just a small cabin with a garden and a swing, the stream, and hundreds of miles of green and yellow prairie grass, speckled with pale flowers.  The wind is always gently blowing, sifting through the grass, stirring Allison’s still-damp hair.  She can’t see _anything_ , there’s nothing to see—no roads, no buildings, no houses on the horizons.

“We’re home,” Laura says, twining her cool fingers through Allison’s.  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Allison wants to cry, but instead, she squeezes Laura’s fingers and looks out into the grass.

*

She sleeps in Laura’s bed with her, a down mattress on the bare wooden floor heaped with furs and quilts.  Laura is warm, and as they drift to sleep one night, it occurs to Allison.

“Are you still a werewolf here?”

Laura curls her body around Allison’s, keeping her safe in the cocoon of her arms.  “Yes.  You can be, too, if you’d like.  We can be anything we want to be here.”

Allison shakes her head.  “I don’t think so.”

Laura nods, kissing Allison’s hair.  “I know.  If you wanted to be, you’d just _be_.”

*

Laura hunts on the prairie, but Allison never sees any animals.  She brings home plump deer and elk, rabbits, pheasants, geese, and cooks them over smoky, rich fires.  Allison roams the prairie and collects sweet-smelling grasses and flowers to eat with the game, tucks them in the pocket of the warm sweater she wears with fleece leggings and boots.

_I’d like to hunt_ , Allison thinks one night, and the next morning, a beautiful bow leans up against the cabin next to a quiver of arrows.

After that, she and Laura hunt together, though Allison only remembers moments of freedom, of running, of Laura next to her in the wind, and then they are back at the fire together, digging into their kill.

*

“She’s trying,” Laura says one night, pressing kisses to the warm skin of Allison’s throat. 

“Who?”  Allison can’t remember being kissed like this, not by Scott or Isaac or anyone else, so gentle and sweet and loving it could kill her.

“The banshee,” Laura says into a kiss, breath gusting across Allison’s neck.  “Lydia.”

Allison pulls away, heart leaping into her throat, and leans up on the bed.  “You can hear Lydia?”  Allison tries day and night to see and hear like Laura does, to smell her father’s cologne, to see Stiles’ goofy smiles, to hear the click of Lydia’s heels, but she only hears the silence of her new world.

Laura nods, face smooth and illuminated in the hearth light.  “I hear her often.  She’s going to bring us back.” 

That night, Allison weeps again, and Laura holds her until morning.

*

They hunt and sleep and tell stories.  They bathe in the stream.  They make love.  They take long walks that may last days, months, years.  They pluck dandelions and blow off their never-rotting fluff, and Allison loves Laura, but she wishes.

And one morning, they wake in each other’s arms, still warm and safe, but the ground is hard and damp beneath them.  The air is bitter cold and when Allison looks up, the sky is scarred with jagged branches of bare trees.

“Where are we?”  She sits up, holding Laura close.

Laura smiles, tears coming to her green eyes.  “I think…”

Feet crunch on leaves nearby, and Allison whips around to see heels and red hair, a red hoodie, plaid flannel, leather, and smells home.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Laura" by Bat for Lashes. I listened to that song while writing this as well as this awesome playlist on 8tracks, [Songs for Dead Girls](http://8tracks.com/deepsetavarice/songs-for-dead-girls).


End file.
